


Collected

by Reavv



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Collars, Cunnilingus, Dubious Consent, F/M, Femdom, Fingering, Fisting, Fluff, M/M, Monster porn, Other, Overstimulation, Praise Kink, Roleplay, Rutting, Sounding, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-23 04:54:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 5,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3755218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reavv/pseuds/Reavv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nsfw prompts from tumblr ranging from 300 to 800 words</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Inquisitor/Servis

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty boys in pretty clothes - Inquisitor/Servis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pretty boys in pretty clothes - Inquisitor/Servis

She steps into the room, hands running down her newest prize. It is a darling thing, all leather and polished brass, and although her hands where more used to the heavy cleft of her broadsword, she mused that there was uses for smaller weapons even in such a place as this. 

This being the lavish and comfortable bedroom the Inquisition had graciously conjured up for its leader. Her bedroom in fact. Although the occupant on the bed currently was much less Andraste’s chosen then disgruntled mage. The furious eyes that stared out at her where just as appealing as they had been on the judgement block. A little less assured of their owners wit and glib tongue maybe, a tongue that wouldn’t be trying to weasel itself out of this bargain. Now that that delightful tongue lacked a foothold to say much of anything, bound as it was in silk. 

Her eyes trailed down a little Servis’ body, catching on the silk ropes and the lace that clung to his hips and legs. Shave smooth it seemed, though she didn’t know if that was just for the occasion or if it was a personal quirk of his. Her scarred lips twitched. 

“What a truly tempting sight. Much more attractive then those shapeless robes from before yes?” She pads closer, grinning more widely at his affronted look. Muffled protests try vainly to escape their silk confines. 

She swings her body over his legs and juts her hip out, bringing his attention shuddering downwards to her own change of attire. The brass cock gleams rather menacingly, much more conspicuous then the wooden models she has seen. Also much less likely to result in splinters she imagines. 

“Nice yeah?” She wraps a hand around the generous girth “Only the best for such a memorable foe.” 

Her hands pat his bound chest with casual air, testing the bonds there and soothing whatever injured pride still remained. 

“Unless of course, you have reconsidered your generous offer and would like a hand back to your quarters?” Another affronted look speared her way, and her eyebrows rise. Servis squirm’s in his binds, before freeing enough to hook a leg over her hips. His eyes say all that really needs to be said on the matter. 

“Well I didn’t mean to offend! I know this wasn’t your original plan” Her hands take their time in idle exploration, even as she keeps a prudent eye on his expression. So hard to tell sometimes, with men as used to lying as he was. 

“I suspect you thought I was a soft woman, under the sword calluses. In secret want of a man to hold me gently and say soft things into my scars. “ Her own hands where not so gentle. Still he urged her on with frustrated movements; perhaps it had been unkind to leave him waiting as she finished up the last minute business of the day. 

Unkind perhaps, but rewarding. 

“I’m afraid I am not so deep as that. What you see, messer, is a woman who likes to take. Take control of the battlefield, take the free flowing money of a job well done, take--” A squeeze of a well toned thigh wrapped in shimmering lace has a squeak breaking past the bound lips. She grins. “Handsome men who foolishly bargain with their body.”


	2. Anders/Templar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Overstimulation and mages getting the upper hand on templars. Anders/Templar

The moans that spill through darktown are strangely pain free tonight, or maybe it is simply a different sort of pain that coats his sore throat. He’s face is certainly feeling a bit of pain, from where it’s scrapped raw against the rough brick wall. His helmet was knocked off sometime ago, and now lies covered in muck and filth and things that will probably appal him when he regains his senses to notice. 

As it is, he is rather occupied with moaning his throat hoarse and trying to keep his knees from failing altogether and bringing them crashing into the same muck and filth. His assailant? Victim? Wanna be victim turned assailant ? Simply chuckles and pushes in that much deeper. His knees shake. 

The apostate at his back simply channels more healing magic into his fingers, letting it course through his captive? Oppressor? Oppressor turned captive? And making him groan in tired defeat. His prick stirs again, despite the very likelihood that cumming again feels like it will kill him. 

He might be more concerned that his moans will bring someone curious enough to see; him, a reputable Templar plastered against a filthy alleyway wall, getting buggered by a blond apostate with too much stamina for one man. He would be worried for his reputation if it wasn’t the fifth time tonight that those moans had escaped his lips, and currently he couldn’t be worried about anything more than whether the torment would continue. 

He desperately hoped it did, just as in the same breath he begged for it to stop. 

A bite to his naked shoulder, a hard thrust to knock his teeth together, and even that much fretting seems like too much. 

Earlier the mage had used electricity, and then ice, and a bit of heat too cool to be truly fire. The man’s hands had sparked with magic even as he had worked them into his body, twisting chocked whimpers out of his throat like some two bit copper whore. 

Now, either the apostate was running out of mana, or simply knew such tricks where no longer needed, for all he did was run a bit of restorative magic through the Templar to start another round. He chokes on it, cock dribbling pitifully, incapable of a true orgasm. 

Anders grins and channel’s a bit more magic through lyrium soaked skin.


	3. Sullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rutting and bondage - Cullen/Samson

The ropes cross across his shoulders, down his chest and back around his thighs. It bits into his skin where it is soft and untouched; the inside of a wrist, the seam of thigh and hip, across the blushing throat.

Where the ropes nip, so too does Samson’s gaze. It is a patient thing, a coiled snake curled up all tight. The bite of it perhaps even more startling then that of the bonds restraining his chest.

He doesn’t look up to watch the gaze as it settles across his body. Doesn’t do much of anything but breathe raggedly into the silence.

“C’mere” Gruff, but not impatient. It never is, when things are like this. When Cullen is on his knees, or back, or braced against the side of his desk in pleasure.

He straightens as much as he can, starts the slow shuffle forward that’s required when hands and torso are so heavily bound. It takes a scant few seconds before he is settled where Samson wants, kneeling at his feet as he sits back. This close Cullen can smell leather and oil and constant taste of ash.

A hand settles in his hair, tugging loose curls this way and that. It moves down to the back of his neck, teasing the rope; thumb digging into the point just under his ear. His head is forced slowly down until it rests on Samson’s lap.

“Go on then, you know what to do” A hint of playfulness there. Cullen feels his face heat even hotter, and takes respite in the fact that Samson’s breaches can tell no tales.

He grips his bound hands together and shifts his weight until he is in some semblance of a correct position. Samson helps, extending one leg until Cullen is forced to straddle it, else be overbalanced.

The shame that threatens to rise up and choke him sits heavy in his gut, but heaviness of his balls is a much more immediate threat. He squirm’s in Samson’s grip, panting into his pant leg.

The first tentative thrusts has him blushing harder then he thought possible. It heats his skin like the touch of lyrium never did. His cock glides over the calf high boots, but it is those hands in his hair that truly have him panting like a dog in heat.

He will beg like one too, he knows. Just as he knows when he inevitably spends onto the pristine leather, it will require no more than a whispered word to bend his neck and lap it up.


	4. Dorian/Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fisting and uppity mages -Dorian/Cullen

“I am not—“ A grunt, pale flesh shivering as hands get to work “—I am not sure that is a sanctioned use of elfroot” He finally manages, voice thin and reedy. 

A chuckle from the handsome mage currently pushing two fingers into him, pulling more reedy noises past slack lips. A grunt as they rub with innerving precision. 

“Nonsense my good commander! I may not be as skilled as some in the arts of restorative arts, but I can say with certainty that this sort of treatment has a great number of health benefits.” And other sorts of benefits, although Dorian keeps that to himself. He pushes a bit more warmth into his fingers anyways. 

Cullen chokes. 

The flush that has slowly worked its way into his body is quite lovely, Dorian thinks. He eyes the ruddiness marking the back of the commanders neck, how the sweat pools in the grooves of tense shoulder blades, the subtle shakes and quivers of sensitive muscles. 

Oil positively drips down his knuckles, staining sheets and drawing his eye to where it glistens on Cullen’s inner thighs. 

Incidentally, also to where two of Dorian’s fingers are crooking into Cullen’s prostate. 

A full blown moan this time, and then success of it has Dorian adding a third for the spice of it. 

The commanders head thrashes vainly, the muscles in his neck and back as tense as a garret. That just won’t do, Dorian muses, and sends more warmth flowing outwards. 

The body under him collapses utterly, faint surprise in what is visible of Cullen’s face. 

“Makers – breath!” It’s a cry, but not quite the one Dorian is looking for. 

He struggles briefly with the vial of oil before managing to coat his hand once more, and wastes no time in tucking a forth one in. It requires a bit of finesse, but if there is one thing Dorian doesn’t lack, it is finesse. 

He spreads his fingers where they are breached, and takes a sort of perverted pride in the way the flesh is pink and sensitive looking. For a moment he is tempted to take his fingers away and replace it with his tongue, but alas, today’s plan can have no deviation. 

And it certainly required a plan, to get Cullen here, in his bed, panting into his sheets. 

Dorian intends to make it a most memorable one. 

He crooks his fingers and rubs, unerringly finding the hard knot of flesh that has Cullen’s teeth gnashing and his mouth cursing. 

He pulls them back enough to tease the rim with his thumb, keeping a close eye on Cullen’s wide eyes. 

“You cannot – No, you must be jesting – “ More please to the maker maybe, but Dorian has no intention of letting Cullen doubt. 

“Oh trust me “ He purrs, liking a strip up Cullen’s back. “I would never jest about this.” 

The wail the fifth finger brings passed scarred lips will echo in Dorian’s dream for some time.


	5. Blackwall/Ambiguous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Praise kink - Blackwall/Ambiguous

“Good boy” said without condescension, a feat in and out of itself. The muscles in Blackwall’s back burn, but not so much as the heat in his chest. He feels like if he where to open his mouth to do more than pant, that fire would lick it’s way out of him. 

Considering who’s company he keeps, that would not be that surprising truthfully. 

He continues his work, methodically straining his arm to pull his chin up towards the bars in the upper barn. There are eyes on him, but isn’t something he needs to be concerned with, so he ignores them. Ignores everything but the trembling of his sore muscles and the soft voice behind him. 

“You must be so sore by now. But still strong, still fighting. ” Blackwall grunt’s and tries to put a little more energy into exercise. 

He’s been at it for a while now. Under the intense gaze and the soft words, and the strange tightness in his ribs. The exercise burns away his bitterness, and whatever is left is swept away in gentle tones. 

“You’re body strains but you’re heart still stands true.” A hand reaches around and soothes down the heaving of his chest. Lips graze his ear. 

“You’re heart will always stand true” He chokes down a sob and lowers himself to the ground once more. The gentle hands on him stop him from attempting to reach up again. 

“That’s enough. You did good. You were so good for me. “ He lets hands gentle him downwards, until he is lying in a warm lap, wetness clinging to his eyelashes as the words sooth over him. 

“That’s all you ever wanted, wasn’t it? Someone to tell you how good you where.” Fingers comb through his tangled hair. 

“You are though. You’re here, and you’re helping, and you are being so very – “ A few peppered kisses on his brow, his cheek “ – very good for me”


	6. Dagna/Samson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bdsm and oral - Dagna/Samson

The collar is an unwieldy thing, it digs into his flesh and strains his neck; too big to rest comfortably at his nape. That was the point of it, he gathered. 

It also came with a convenient ring big enough to slip a leash through. 

The thighs bracketing his face shake with laughter, and a tug on the aforementioned leash has him looking up. He bares his teeth, not that it does a lick of good in face of Dagna’s cheerful sadism. He can’t hold the glare very long; his head drops back down as a moan wrecks itself form his body. 

He is buzzing, shattering away from the feeling of the – the device wrecking him from the inside. It seems to shake his whole body apart; the vibrations travelling up into his chest to knock loose in there. Not to mention the unending, intimate heat. 

Another tug on the leash, and Samson balefully glares upwards. A promiscuous foot has him choking though, when it travels under him and nudges the device further in. Dagna’s sharp smile holds all the promises of torturer and pardoner both. 

The leash is tugged ever tauter, until Samson relents and shuffles closer. This close, the object of the game becomes much clearer. Samson has had his share of woman, and men both, but most of those trysts where done under the constant threat of inopportune intrusions, in the case of the Templars, and inopportune murderers and thieves, in the case of after the Templars. 

He has never had the luxury to look much, or taste, as it was. He has to crane his neck to reach, but it is no difficult task to flatten the tip of his tongue and give her what she wants. 

That is truly all he ever does these days; giving Dagna what she wants.


	7. Hawke/Demon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> weird monster stuff - Hawke/Demon

The sound of a thousand skittering legs. Chitin knocking together, rattling bones. The demons come, or maybe they go. It is impossible to tell, as their state changes nothing. Once he might have been a tempting target for the many denizens of the fade, but now, hallowed, broken, split into so many pieces; he was useless to them as he was to the pulsing greedy hunger of the nightmare demon. 

No one ever stopped to think about what happens when you die physically in the fade.

* * *

He drifts. The scenery changes, or maybe it doesn’t. A thousand screams echo in his ears, distant, fading, inescapable. 

The hole where he was impaled heals, opens, heals, a circular state as so much of the fade is. After a while he ignores it. Ignores a lot, like the shadows creeping around him, hesitant, wary, hungry. 

He sleeps.

* * *

He doesn’t dream, impossible now that his dreams are his reality. When he wakes, he is once again somewhere else, different but still the same as where he was last. 

The shadows are gone. 

He tries not to feel lonely. 

He picks up his staff, which wasn’t there previously, and starts walking again. 

His feet echo across the landscape, thundering, pondering, weaving their steps as clear as any warning bell. 

He thinks he hears a laugh in answer.

* * *

He takes one step and falls down what was stable ground just moments before, and is now open air. 

The whistling of air rushing past his head tugs at his mind, chattering at him, inviting, telling secrets and lies in all the same breath. 

He lands on a bed.

* * *

It is a handsome bed. Large, larger than would normally warrant, but then again, everything appears larger here sometimes. And smaller. 

The drapery is a fine red, a literal blood colour, and drips drips drips. It smells of lavender and poppy seed. 

The skittering is back.

* * *

He tries to get off the bed, but cant. Not because something stops him, but because every time he tries the bed gets bigger, the edges farther away. 

Eventually he stops.

Eventually he notices hes not alone.

* * *

The demon, because of course it is a demon, is vaguely humanoid, in the same way a horse is vaguely canine and darkspawn are vaguely Orlaisian. It has eyes, which stare at him in the vague approximation of a face, and it has hands, which lie limp and lifeless in its lap. 

The horns though, are usually a good sign of inhumanness, and the mess of tentacles rising from his back also lend credence to the non-human description. Where the main body appears to be content to sit like a placid doll, the tentacles gnash about with unrestrained energy. 

Rose’s bloom blood red around the bed. Thorns the size of his hands skitter across the floor. They move in time with the demon.

* * *

He doesn’t quite know what happens. Or he knows, but the meaning is lost to him. 

He blinks his eyes upwards, where he lays on the soft inviting bed, and its soft, inviting roses, and its soft inviting inhabitant. 

His staff is gone.

* * *

The horns are warm to the touch, he finds.


	8. Fenris/Hawke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fisting and roleplay - Fenris/Hawke

The body that lay on the bed was pliant, soft in a way Fenris never thought possible. The scarred flesh moved obediently under his hands, the limbs unresisting. In the midst of all the passivity though, Hawke’s eyes still burned with a strange fire; his mouth still quirked with amusement. Perhaps here; in this bed Fenris had the power, but he did not delude himself that it was out of any true ownership. 

Hawke was a thing so free, not even imagined shackles bound him with any conviction. 

Fenris runs his hands down his body anyways, looking for hidden weakness, vulnerabilities. Hawke only sighs, unconcerned at the power he has given up. 

Fenris resists the little glow of contentment in chest. 

“You make for a truly horrendous slave, Hawke” He finally says, resting on his haunches after a moment of indecision. The sight of all that flesh is tempting, but some unease lingers still. 

A chuckle. 

“And we will get nowhere with this fantasy of yours if you keep detaching to criticize my technique.” A flash of teeth; boast and bet all in one “ You said you where confident in your skill; that you would make me scream by the end of the night” Hawke punctuates that with an idle thigh draped over Fenris’ hip. 

“Perhaps you where wrong after all?” Throaty, trap laid and bared before him. Fenris’ sees it for what it is and falls into it anyways. He resumes his task. 

“You could try to be a bit more convincing. It is hard enough imagining someone of your girth smiling prettily at their masters as it is” His ire is soft though. He doesn’t not think this would be so pleasant if Hawke where truly capable of appearing the defenceless slave. 

Nevertheless he will endeavour to make him scream; as promised. He succeeds as well, although it takes an indecent application of oil; and all 5 fingers.


	9. Solas/Bull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was originally going to be pet play, ended up as semi public sex (poor dorian) - Solas/Bull

It would be erroneous for Solas to say he had no idea how he came to be in this position. The events where rather lateral in their process. It was the why that was currently escaping him as large hands knocked his thighs apart. 

His desk is not the most comfortable of seats, but he makes do he’s pushed higher onto it. He briefly struggles to appear affronted. 

“I’m not quite sure what you are trying to do, Iron Bull. Although flattered, I do not have the same sort of proli—“ A squeak, as rough hands start to tug at his tunic. 

A throaty chuckle. 

“Maybe, and maybe you were watching me last night with the servant girl for reason’s besides carnal curiosity. Want to ride the bull huh?” A flash of a grin, amused. 

“I certainly do no—“ Another squeak, slightly higher as a giant head bends to mouth along his neck. Rough stumble tickles his skin and he shifts back. 

“Really?” Iron Bull pulls back, wicked grin firmly entrenched on his face. 

“You seem to be rather passive for someone so very –“ A rough caress of his thigh has Solas’ face start to heat “—uninterested”. One adventurous hand even goes so far as to slip under his tunic and stroke the bare skin of his hip. 

Solas puffs up as much as possible, trying to smack Iron Bull’s hands away. He only succeeds at getting his hands tangled in the much larger grip of the qunari’s. 

Bull’s mouth returns to the reddened skin of his neck, puffing hot air there before sliding up towards the long ears of the elf. 

“You really want to stop? You say katoh and I’ll let you go. Otherwise, keep your voice down. This isn’t really the most inconspicuous of places.”

* * *

His body is a tidal wave; the push and pull of his arousal fighting with the pounding of his blood. It thrums in his ears, deafening him. 

He flings an arm over his face, skin burning and lung gasping. 

Bull, between his legs, does something complicated with his tongue. Strong hands restrain his legs, but his torso is free to writhe as much as it wants; which is very. 

Solas wants to kick, or maybe set something on fire. He certainly feels like he’s on fire himself. 

It doesn’t take long after that for him to acquiesce completely. 

 

Up above the two figures, Dorian knuckles at his eyes and mutters a prayer of strength. Although initially amused at the situation developing downstairs, now all he is left with is frustration. He had been sleeping, like most sane people at this hour, but sleep was now impossible with all the noise. 

He angrily adjusts himself in his pants and casts his eyes back downward. At least the show was likely to be entertaining. 

More elven swears drift upwards.


	10. Hawke/Demon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sounding + monsters - A continuation of the previous Hawke/Demon

There is a tendril encircling his wrist. Petal smooth, warm enough to feel. It brings about the scent of roses and things deep in the sea. 

Theres another one on his ankle, twisting up. It unnerves him only in the way that it doesn’t it. He doesn’t have the energy to question why. 

A hand is in his hair, soft touches. It has been so very long since someone has touched him with kindness. These last few months have been so wrought with pain and loneliness that the feeling of fingers carding through his hair makes a moan slip out, breathy and honest. 

He arches into it, languid. He open’s his eyes. 

Close overhead a canopy has formed, tightly woven roses twinning together to. The scent is sweet, maybe overly so, and it dazes him and stirs something inside. He feels like there is a storm inside of him. And yet, he can barely move his limbs from how heavy they are. 

He closes his eyes.

He doesn’t need to move them though, because the tendrils move them for him. One of them wraps around his leg gently, pulling until it is bent at the knee. Another moves to capture both wrists and bring them together. It pulls his arms up until they are slung over a thin shoulder. 

He open his eyes. 

Lyrium bright eyes stare him back, set in a round face a tint too pink to be human. The skin looks like it was built straight from the roses that envelop him. Arching horns twist back from its braided hair. A hand tips his head further back, exposing his neck. 

 

Soft lips touch his, gentle, gentle. They move along his skin like a blessing, worshipful, awe-filled. His mouth opens as he gasp, and those lips are quick to take advantage. 

He feels like he is drowning in nectar. 

He is rapidly forgetting that he is stuck in the fade, that this is a demon. He can only think of sweet kisses, of the steady hold on his arms and legs. 

A tendril moves across his thigh, draping itself along sensitive skin to slowly move up his body. He notices for the first time that he is naked. He wasn’t before. 

His thighs are pushed apart, up. His head tips back to rest along firm skin, overwhelmed. Everywhere the tendrils touch his skin heats, tingles. A dark flush has worked itself into his skin. His throat sticks. 

A tendril inches itself across his chest, brushing sensitive skin, but it is the one farther bellow that has his sudden attention. 

Its thinner then the others, gleaming wetly. It snacks up his inner thigh and drapes its tip along his length, root to tip. 

A wet noise tries to escape his slack lips, but a kiss steals them away. 

The tendril wraps around his cock, gentle but firm, and coaxes it into full hardness. His thighs tremble, trapped. His hands flex in their cage. 

A slow undulation has him arching, seeking friction, but the larger tendrils have him trapped, pinned, a bug in the rose garden. Lured into the spider web. 

Small bites along his neck, and heat rises. A hand reaches down and pinches raised skin, dragging the stuck noises past his lips. And then a whine as the slender tip of the tendril teases up the head, back and forth. Flirting with the slit until wetness spills out. 

He shivers. 

He screams. 

The tendril is no longer flirting, it is pushing, prodding, seeking entrance in, in in. His body tries to twitch away, but more of them come to hold him down. Teeth lodge into his neck. 

Wetness gathers in the corner of his eyes. 

It feels, it feels – He doesn’t know how it feels. His cock is hard, harder then its ever been, and yet it feels like it should be pain. It is pain. Almost. 

He feels oversensitive, like his body is shaking itself loose. 

It drags out. He screams. 

It pushes in. His voice gets stuck. He can’t breath. 

It’s moving under his skin, touching that which should not be touched. He likes it thought, Maker does he like it. 

Hands go back to petting his hair.   
His toes curl, his chest beats staccato, the tendril moves. It moves and moves and twists itself inside of him until he feels it pass some sort of barrier. He keens. His head thrashes. 

It finally stops, pushing up against something that makes him burn everywhere. He feels like he is on fire. 

He trembles there, caught in some indecipherable moment, and then it starts to move. Out this time. 

He screams. 

Black shadows creep into his vision. 

 

When he wakes, the tendrils are gone. Petals litter his exhausted body, and a hand still cards through his hair. His stomach is sticky with come and whatever the small tendril was covered with. 

He smiles.


	11. Blackwall/Adaar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inquisitor punished Blackwall with sounding

So the man in Val Royeaux’s dungeon want’s to be treated like a criminal. Want’s to atone and be punished for his past greed. Adaar can work with that. She interrupts what’s turning out to be quite the guilty rant. 

“You want justice for what you did to your men, there’s a few options there. But what about justice for what you did to the inquisition? There is going to be consequences in light of your lie that will be hard to quell.” Calm. Inscrutable. Her anger is as cold as the Frostbacks and just as deadly.

The man that was Blackwall flinches. 

“You would be better off leaving me here to Orlais justice, surely the court cannot blame the Inquisition for one man’s guilt?” He says, pleading maybe, but without much hope. 

Adaar snorts. 

“You and I both know Orlais would celebrate to have any reason to condemn the Inquisition, especially now that we are finally gaining power.” She says, pushing off of the bars of the cell behind her. 

She cast’s one last look at the despondent man on the ground. Men, all so quick to make themselves martyrs. She makes one last disgusted noise and leaves.

As she makes her way back towards clean air, she passes Cullen and his report. She shakes her head at him and continues on her way. She’ll read the account when she get’s back to Skyhold. 

“Get him out” 

 

She spends some time finalising business; organising the reparation to the families of the men killed because of Thom Raniers actions, convincing the court of the innocence of the remaining men, and then smoothing over what feathers need soothing from the rather impolite interference in Orlaisian justice. It requires simply a whispered word in a minister’s ear to have the men acquitted, posthumously or not. A few wealthy, socially conscious families agree to contribute a fund towards the whole effort, and it is very easy to get the remaining men offers for positions in guarding refugees impacted by the war. 

Now all that’s left is the matter of Thom Ranier himself. The virtuous thing to do would be to give him over to the Warden’s. It would be seen as adequate justice while also serving to give the man the atonement he want’s. 

 

Adaar is greedy though, and can’t quite agree to give up one of her own, even one who deserves it. 

In the end, she makes some vague noise about duty and offence owed, and acquits him without difficulty.

Which he did not appreciate, she thinks wryly, watching his fuming face. She hadn’t even bothered trying him on the judgement floor; she had sent the missive out from her office. The same office he now stood, incensed. 

“This is not justice.” He says, practically vibrating. She doesn’t mention how she just spent the whole morning fixing his mistakes as well as could be, and how his death would never have giving his men back their dignity or lives. That’s a conversation for later. 

“This does nothing but showcase to the world how you will use your power unfairly. They will think you corrupt, and won’t be wrong.” He continues, seemingly working himself up to a rant. She sees the shred of relief in his face however, and relaxes into her seat. She holds up a hand before he can trip over his words any more than he has. 

“It is not your place anymore to worry about my reputation, Ranier. Your duty now is to find atonement for your guilt. If I say that means fighting at the Inquisition’s side, well, I would hope you would honour your earlier vow and continue to help us. Thedas cannot afford the lose of even one man in the fight against Corypheus.” 

His tense posture relaxes a tad. Good, he still responds to direction and command. She had a feeling that what he had been lacking in his previous life was the absence of a firm hand. Command didn’t suit him. 

“Of course, my lady.” He finally says, squaring his shoulder like the soldier he truly is. Ah the wonders of the military types. 

“Good, then you are dismissed.” She waves him out. No doubt there will be more conversations needed to drive home the message, but for now, the seed is planted. 

He shuffles off like the obedient man he is, but just as his hand touches the doorknob she interrupts. 

“Oh and Ranier, the next time you want to be punished for your sins, come to me and not the headsman’s block.” She says; nonchalant, casual, a sharp eye looking for the way his hands clench and his back straightens. 

And the trap is set. 

\--  
And that’s how they come to this. Oh there was events in between of course, conversations and hints, letters from wronged families and fighting. It took coaxing and effected nonchalance to get this far, but here they are. 

The man want’s punishment, and she is suited for it. A match made in fade dreams, as it where. 

Her eyes roam his form on her bed hungrily. She had started with the ropes, but found he responded better to being bound simply with her words and his own self-control. More difficult that way, she expected. 

It meant though that he was free to grasp at the wood of her headboard with all his might, muscles bunching and sweat dripping. Where she sits astride his thighs she can feel his legs quivering. 

She feels like a wolf in front of a shaking nug. Her grin might as well be as pointed. 

She reaches out one hand to flick lightly at the instrument causing such delightful reactions, only to have to clench down on his thighs with her own at the resulting buck. A hoarse shout makes itself know, and she grins down at him. 

It’s an insidious little thing, as long as her hand and as thin as a quill. Smooth metal, polished to a shine. It gives a lovely contrast to the dark purple of his cock. She pushes it in a bit more to watch his throat bob. 

“I thought I told you not to move?” She says, petting one furry thigh. His eyes open to peer blearily out at her. It requires a few tries before he can get the breath to respond. 

“Sorry, my lady.” His voice is an abused rasp. 

She smiles. 

It’s a simple matter to wrap one hand around his cock; thumb pressed against the head right under the metal, and start an easy rhythm of thrusting with the other hand. A slight twist to the upward pull, and a gentle but non-stop push back in. 

His muscles tremble but he is able to stay still. Remarkable self-control for someone who already appears to be at his limit. 

It’s too bad for him that she intends to wreck that control completely.


End file.
